Chance the Winds of Fortune
by imperatrixregina
Summary: Fiercely independent Avery Garland, sister-in-law of Commodore Norrington, and devilishly irresistible Captain Gareth Slade, Will Turner's cousin, cross verbal swords the minute they meet, but as war rises around them, their fates converge unforgettably.
1. Chapter 1

Disclaimer: It is unnecessary to say that Pirates of the Caribbean and any characters you may recognize belong to Disney. The plot of the story is based heavily on a novel by Christine Elliott. 

Author's note: I tried to avoid using the canon characters too much, because I didn't want to be accused of character murder. I wasn't certain as to the exact year that PotC took place, but here I project it to be in the 1670s. This story begins two years after the end of the movie: Will and Elizabeth are married, Jack Sparrow is happily sailing the Caribbean, and Commodore Norrington has gotten over his broken heart. 

Relations to canon: in case you were wondering, Gareth and Will are related, as will later be revealed. Also, Avery's sister Marian is Elizabeth Swann Turner's best friend and Commodore Norrington's wife. And obviously, without the _Black Pearl_ and its crew, Gareth and Avery wouldn't have met. Jack Sparrow himself will appear later on in the story, as well.

Historical note: I recognize the many inaccuracies. Please forgive them, they were necessary for the sake of the plotline.

**Chance the Winds of Fortune**

**Chapter 1**

_March 1679_

"Fire!"

Captain Gareth Slade's battle cry pierced the heavy layer of acrid smoke enveloping the _Lady of the Wind's sand-strewn decks. With a dogged efficiency belied by their sweaty, grease-stained appearance, the gunners ignited the two four-pound cannons on the larboard side, hurling a second deadly salvo across an expanse of gray Atlantic. The thunderous roar of guns gave way to echoes of heavy oak splintering as the foremast of the Spanish warship _Delfin_ crashed to her deck. A wild, undisciplined cheer rang through the privateers, and the _Lady of the Winds_, cleanly tacking to starboard, swept out of range of the Spanish guns._

Captain Slade, standing tall and erect on the quarterdeck, lifted a slimly muscled arm, silencing his men. "She's not ours yet, boys," he yelled. "Shall we make another try?"

Again the crew voiced their enthusiasm for harassing the Spanish warship.

"Well then, men, prepare for another run by!"

The strong westerly wind sang in her canvas as the sloop veered to larboard, smoothly maneuvering into the turn that would take her back toward the huge enemy vessel still riding the broad swells.

"She'll be expecting us this time, Captain," Oliver Chappel prophesied, rubbing the only hair on his head, a shaggy, grizzled beard, as he moved beside the younger man.

"That she will, Oliver," Gareth Slade replied, giving his first mate a friendly slap on the back. He then wiped his once-white linen sleeve across his damp visage. He had a strong, handsome face, with slashing-straight brows of the same raven hue as his hair, a narrow, finely chiseled nose, and a wide sensual mouth that seemed to hold its present serious bent with some difficulty. 

Gareth took a deep breath of the salt air. Relieved that most of the noxious fumes of saltpeter and brimstone had dissipated, he relaxed and his mouth extended in a broad grin. 

"We have the advantage of the wind, though, and she's still not under full sail."

There was a hint of contempt in his voice. Not that he wasn't pleased with the lack of quickness in the response of the Spanish. From the moment the _Lady of the Winds and the __Delfin had emerged, almost simultaneously, from the heavy blanket of fog off Long Island Sound, each noticing the other with shock, he had counted on complacency in the Spanish. Of course, the __Delfin, seemingly invincible, would never have expected an attack by an arrogant, outgunned sloop. But that was just what she had gotten. _

Hardly allowing his surprise time to register, Gareth had ordered all practical sails hoisted and extra shot and bags of powder positioned by the cannon. It wasn't often he could pit the _Lady of the Winds_, and himself, against anything other than pigeon-plump merchantmen bound for Quebec, so he silently thanked whatever fates had drawn this prize across his bow. Somewhere beyond the murky veil of fog, the rest of the Spanish convoy floundered blindly, just as the _Lady of the Winds_ had done for the past day and night, till that moment, not thirty minutes past, when the strong westerly wind had rolled back the blinding mist just enough to reveal some of its secrets.

"Think we can ram another volley into that Spanish bitch?" Oliver asked, motioning toward the square rigger.

"We're sure as hell going to try!" Gareth answered, not surprised by Oliver's enthusiasm. Gareth had grown up disliking the Spanish, due to the hostility they had frequently shown the colonies, and he had done his best to harass Spanish shipping, partly out of a sense of patriotism, partly because doing so made him rich, and just a little – well, maybe more than a little – because he enjoyed it. 

 "Check all for readiness. We are going to have to make this count," Gareth commanded, casting a calculating glance at the Spanish vessel before following the wiry first mate to the main deck."

"God's blood, Cap'n," Oliver exclaimed as the younger man descended behind him, "I never thought we'd be goin' up against a damn man-of-war. Excitin', ain't it?"

Gareth grinned. "Aye, it's exciting, but let's just hope and pray that she doesn't blow us out of the sea."

Oliver gave him a look, clearly showing how unlikely he thought that possibility. Then he strode over to where those of the crew not busy with other chores stood checking their muskets.

His mate's eagerness notwithstanding, Gareth was, indeed, cognizant of the risks involved. The first run at the unprepared ship had been daring; he hoped this second and final sweep was not foolhardy. If he were a cautious man, he would steer clear of the _Delfin and hightail it for New York harbor. After all, the __Lady of the Wind's hold was full to bursting with Spanish cargo they'd seized. But no one had ever accused him of prudence – or of timidity._

The thunderous guns of the _Delfin split the silence of the early spring afternoon, the _Lady of the Winds_ racing toward her. Firepower, ominous and deadly, the Spanish craft had; maneuverability was what she lacked._

"Fire!" Gareth's command rang out. The sudden lurch caused by recoil was felt by all aboard as the _Lady of the Winds_ unloaded a sally prior to dancing away on the waves.

Before the smoke had cleared enough to ascertain the damage inflicted on the _Delfin_, the look out's excited yell made Gareth look to the west, where the turgid bank of mist formed an eerie backdrop for five Spanish men-of-war.

Let's get the hell out of here, he thought. Not even he liked these odds.

"We're headin' straight for 'em!" Oliver wailed, as Gareth grabbed the helm, setting the _Lady of the Winds _sharp lines on a course due west.

"They've yet to surmise what we're about." The calmness of Gareth's statement masked the wild beating of his heart. But a quick perusal of the hulking ships revealed the leisurely manner with which their tars worked the ropes.

Still, Oliver's voice was shrill with anxiety at his captain's madness. "Their guns!"

"Will be useless against us," Gareth finished. "We'll slip between the ships, and they won't dare fire for fear of blowing each other from the water. Then all we need to do is hide in the fog."

"And what if we run into more of the convoy in the mist?" Oliver asked. For all his pessimism, relief was now evident on his face.

"I didn't say it was foolproof." Gareth laughed as he concentrated on steering the sloop through the narrow channel between two of the ships.

***

The plan proved to be foolproof indeed, and this time when the crew cheered its success, the _Lady of the Wind's_ captain deemed it unnecessary to quell their enthusiasm. Indeed, his voice could be heard among that of his men's.

***

Within the week, the _Lady of the Winds_ was unloading ornate porcelain, gold embroidered cloth, and Spanish lace onto the wagons and carts of New York's merchants, while Joshua delivered his letters of marques to Lieutenant Governor DeLancey.

Once he'd been assured that all was in order, he succumbed to the lure of the common room of the waterfront inn where he was staying while in port. Some of his men were already in the cramped, smoke-filled room, their raucous laughter testimony to the copious amounts of rum they had consumed.

"Guvnor happy with our haul?" Oliver called across the room before leaving his seat by the brightly blazing hearth to join his captain.

"Have you ever known Lieutenant Governor DeLancey to be anything but pleased with a hefty profit?"

Oliver laughed deep in his throat. "Ya sure got it right there, Cap'n." He pointed toward the narrow wooden stairs leading toward the second floor. 'Your sea chest is in your room, 'long with a hot bath. Oh, and there was a packet o' letters for ya. I stashed 'em in the table by your bed."

It was nearly an hour later when Oliver pounded on his door. "Ya all right, Cap'n? Wouldn't do for ya to drown in that little bitty tub o' water, ya bein' the terror o' the seas an' all." Oliver chuckled at his own joke, but when no answer was forthcoming, he opened the door, filling the tiny room with the bawdy clamor of the crew below.

"Cap'n?"

"What?" Abruptly drawn from his musings, Gareth tensed, and as his head swung around, years of living by his instincts sent his hand to the sword resting peacefully on a nearby table. "Oh, it's you, Oliver."

Gareth slumped back into the chair he had occupied moments earlier.

"Everyone's waiting for ya downstairs. Is somethin' wrong?" Oliver scanned the room, taking in the captain's disheveled appearance, his discarded waistcoat and rumpled hair, before fixing on the open packet of letters beside the sword. "Bad news?"

Gareth raised eyes that seemed bright despite the gathering dusk. "They're from Nat," he said, gesturing toward the letters.

"Nat, huh? And how is young Nathaniel? Still playin' the peacemaker?"

"I supposed you could say that." Gareth straightened his frame into a more conventional sitting position. "He wants me to come home."

"How long's it been, Cap'n?"

Taking a deep breath, Gareth reached over to pick up the letters. He smoothed the edges and systematically refolded the parchments before answering. "Nearly four years now – three years when the first of these letters was written."

"We was out to sea long time, Cap'n."

"Aye, a long time. Nat says they're having problems."

"What kinda problems?"

Gareth rose to light the candles by the bed. "Lost cargo mostly, but Nat says they lost one of their ships, too."

"Those damn Spanish?" Oliver spat out the words.

Shaking his head, Gareth slumped back into the chair. "Nat doesn't think so. He says they stay well clear of any Spanish holdings. He's inclined to think it's the work of pirates. Even thinks it might be the same group every time."

"What do ya think?" Oliver threw the words over his shoulder as he knelt to light the wood already laid in the fireplace.

"Seems unlikely to me. I can't imagine that many unlucky coincidences."

"Aye. Hey, Cap'n," Oliver straightened and turned, placing his fists on his hips. "Ya ain't thinkin' like any o' this is your fault, is ya? 'Cause ya know, ya didn't exactly walk out on that pa o' yours."

A weak imitation of his usual grin flickered across Gareth's face. "If you're trying subtly to remind me of the night my father ordered me from his house, needn't worry. I haven't forgotten." 

Of course, it had been much more complicated than his words indicated. To Gareth, that winter night four years ago had seen the culmination of a long, emotionally taxing war – a war that had been raging for as long as he could remember. It had been based on differences in ideas and beliefs and actions, but the undercurrent had been the clash of two strong, divergent personalities.

"Good. Well, see that ya don't." Oliver's words brought him back to the present. "What's he want? Money? Your pa hear tell o' your exploits and wish he'd backed ya 'stead o' tryin' to wrestle that sloop from ya?"

"Nay, these letters aren't from Father, and you know Nat wouldn't ask for anything. Hell, Father wouldn't either, for that matter!"

Oliver grunted in agreement as Gareth slowly unfolded himself from the chair and walked to the window. "He's dying." 

"Your pa?" Oliver's tone was incredulous.

"Yes. That's why Nat wants me home – to make my peace with him." Gareth straightened. "I know I promised the men some time, but . . ."

"I reckon they'd be just as happy in Baltimore as here. That is where we're headin', ain't it?"

***

_May 1679_

_The __Caribbean_

Avery Garland gripped the sea-slicked hemp of the ladder that led from the deck of the _Mount__Olympus to the small boat below. At least she assumed the boat was below, for the night was black as pitch, too dark for seeing. But then, though it frightened her to have to feel her way down the side of the hull, this moonless night was part of the plan._

"It will be too dark for the _Pearl to see a small boat full of women leaving the schooner," Captain Evans of the __Mount__Olympus had assured her. It was his idea that she leave the vessel that was taking her home to her father and her sugar plantation in Jamaica. Earlier that day, sails had been sighted, and try as she might the __Mount__Olympus had been unable to pull away from the _Black Pearl_._

"Pirates," Captain Evans had told her gloomily after advising Avery to retire to her cabin. "We could surrender, because I hear the folk on board the _Pearl_ are decent for pirates, except . . ."

"Except for what?" she'd asked, fearing she knew the answer.

His reply had been succinct. "You."

Actually, it had been more than just her. Avery had found out there were several other women aboard – women of questionable character. But Avery herself was the child of Charles Garland, a wealthy shipping merchant, and Lady Katherine Bennett, daughter of an English earl. And though Lord Bennett had disowned Katherine upon her marriage to a nameless Irishman, he would still be _most_ displeased if his eldest granddaughter fell into the hands of pirates – especially the notorious Jack Sparrow, who was known for having a way with the ladies.

The lapping of the swells against the hull was louder now, and when Jake Roger's hands grabbed her about the waist, Avery knew she was almost to the boat.

Her eyes became accustomed to the darkness, and she could make out the shadowy shapes of the other women and of Jake, the seaman assigned to row them to a nearby island. 

"You can make it easily in a day," Captain Evans had said. "And, as soon as the _Pearl_ is finished with us, we'll set sail and come for you."

Jake pushed the muffled oars against the _Mount__Olympus, setting them adrift on an adventure that not even Avery could relish._

***

Bright sunshine sent her hands searching for the comforter to cover her eyes. With a start, Avery realized there were no soft, fluffy blankets, and remembered where she was.

"The pirates." She sat up quickly, brushed errant dark locks of hair from her face, and looked out over the water. She was certain she must look awful. Her frizzy black curls, unbound and unbrushed, were standing up like stalks of dry grass.

"Well, her ladyship's finally decided to rise. Probably wants her tea and biscuits, too," squawked a woman whose unnaturally red hair hung over her ample bosoms. 

Avery purposely ignored the sullen whore. Instead, she gazed toward the horizon. "Are they gone? The pirates, I mean." 

"Well now, little lady," he said, leveling his blue eyes on her, "I'd say, more'n likely it's us that's gone. Imagine them pirates are still pretty much where we left 'em."

"You have encountered pirates before, haven't you, Mr. Rogers?"

Jake Rogers smiled, wiping the back of a sunburned hand across his sweating brow before answering. "Aye, little lady, that I have."

"Are they as awful as I've heard?"

Jake leaned over his oars thoughtfully. "Well now, little lady, the _Pearl_ has a pretty decent crew, for pirates. _Olympus will be all right."_

"I'm starvin'," whined Missy, the youngest of them all. Her hair was limp and greasy, but Avery imagined it would be pale blond if clean. As she handed her a sea biscuit, Avery was struck by the girl's youth. Missy couldn't be a day over fifteen. Avery, though unwed at twenty-six, was not totally naïve. She knew that there were women who sold themselves to men, but that this girl, hardly more than a child, did so, seemed beyond belief.  

The rest of the afternoon passed in a monotonous blur. Since everyone had been silenced by the dearth of water, Avery had plenty of time to think. And the thoughts that filled her mind, as she pulled the cloying fabric of her gown away from her skin, were of her father. 

She should never have left him. It did not help to remind herself that she had had no choice; her Aunt Libby had come from Williamsburg of taking her back. And Charles Garland, after many arguments with his sister, had agreed to let her go. 

"Jamaica!" her aunt had exclaimed contemptuously. "No Society a' tall. Marian was lucky to snare such a fine match, but there can't be many eligible men. You _must_ come to Williamsburg with me." 

But with her younger sister, newly wed to Commodore Norrington, gadding off in Kingsport, her father had been left all alone on the plantation. She should have known her father would be lost without her; and it didn't make her feel less guilty to admit that she had enjoyed the trip – _and_ the society. Aunt Libby had been right; she had been very lonely at Hopewell. 

Papa lived comfortably in a world of ideas, a world he shared with both of his daughters, but the other world, the outside world, he had sought to blot out since the death of his wife Katherine. Had the real world proven too much for him? Was that what had caused the melancholy in the last letter she had received, or was he sick and trying to hide his illness? Whichever, she wished this nightmare were over and she were safely back at Hopewell.

But her wish was not to be granted that day, or even the next. As the long hours passed under the baking sun and the fresh water in the barrel diminished alarmingly, Avery began to doubt that they would reach the island in time. 

By nightfall the third day she fell into an exhausted sleep, wondering if she would ever wake.

***

"Are any of 'em alive?" The words drifted through to her consciousness an instant before she felt a callused hand gently touch her neck.

"Aye, this one is. Looks like the others are, too." The voice was strong and nearly as comforting as the thumb tracing the pulse under her chin. 

"What do you reckon they was doing floatin' around here?" The voice was more distant.

"I'll tell you what we was doing'." Avery thought it was Missy's voice she heard, but she was so tired, too tired to open her eyes or listen, and when strong arms scooped her up, she felt safe, secure. With a contented sigh she nestled against the clean-smelling chest and let oblivion take over her. 

***

One last note: ah, yes, Avery. Is she a Mary Sue? Obviously, I hope not, but hey, it's fine if you think so. At least, I can say safely she is not a self-insertion. I wrote this story because I thought it would make a good story, and not to fulfill any personal fantasy.


	2. Chapter 2

Disclaimer: It is unnecessary to say that Pirates of the Caribbean and any characters you may recognize belong to Disney. The plot of the story is based heavily on a novel by Christine Elliott. 

Author's note: No, this is not a rapefic, rest assured.

Historical note: I recognize the many inaccuracies. Please forgive them, they were necessary for the sake of the plotline.

**Chance the Winds of Fortune**

**Chapter 2**

"Drinkin' alone, Cap'n?"

"I was," replied Gareth cryptically as he motioned Oliver further into his cabin. It was small and a bit messy, the swaying cabin lantern alternately casting light and shadow across the wooden bunk and chart-strewn desk.

"Ain't good for a man, ya know, drinkin' alone."

"And I supposed you have a cure for this dilemma of mine?" Gareth grinned, then motioned to the low-back chair on the other side of his desk.

"Well now, I just might. That French brandy ya got there, Cap'n?" the first mate asked, eyeing the pewter mug Gareth held in his large hands.

"'Fraid not, Oliver." Gareth swirled the amber brew around once before draining his cup. "This is good old Jamaican rum."

Oliver spluttered. "But we've a whole store of brandy in the forward hold. Should I . . ."

He started to stand, but Gareth reached across and pulled him down. "Not in the mood for brandy."

Oliver sat down and slid his mug across the polished surface of the desk. "Never knowed you to pass up good French brandy for rum," he muttered. 

Extracting the jug from under the desk and filling Oliver's mug and then his own, Gareth explained genteelly, "Brandy's for savoring, rum's for getting drunk."

"That's what you're about, getting drunk?"

Long legs, clothed in buff-colored breeches, found their way to the desk top. There, crossed at the ankles, they rested, forming a V through which Gareth regarded his friend. "Objections?"

"I'm worried about ya, Cap'n," oliver said, rubbing his hand through his beard and putting his drink down, untouched.

Gareth's laugh was sharp and abrupt. "Is that supposed to surprise me? You've been worrying about me since I was seven years old, whether I needed it or not. Why would I expect you to cease your mother-hen act now?"

"Laugh if ya want, but ya ain't been yourself, and ya know it as well as I do. Ya ain't sleepin', for starters."

"How in the hell do you know that?" Gareth slapped his mug down onto the log board. Damn Oliver. There was no keeping secrets from him.

"Seen ya on deck lotsa nights, and I ain't the only one either. Crew says you're becomin' a regular addition to the night watch."

"Crew's becoming like a gaggle of old biddies, gossiping. And you," Gareth pointed a finger at the older man, "are their ring leader."

"It ain't your fault, ya know," said Oliver, ignoring him.

Gareth didn't have to ask what he meant. They both knew what was causing his sleepless nights, the sudden desire to drown his memories in drink. He steepled his fingers under his chin and studied Oliver before shaking his head. "I should have been there."

"Of course ya shoulda, but you weren't, and it weren't your fault you weren't, You've gotta stop blamin' yourself, thinkin' you coulda done somethin' different." 

Gareth stared at his first mate, but his mind was traveling back to that night almost a month ago when he had arrived in Baltimore. He had rushed to the large Georgian house in which he'd spent his childhood, only to stand hesitantly in the shadow of the large oak near the entrance, not wanting to approach the doorway and sound the knocker. He had tried to think of his father as Nat had described him in the last letter he'd received – tired, mellow, ready to face death and to arrive at a truce with his elder son. It wasn't easy. Memories of his father's stern, unyielding voice kept interfering. _You were a feckless lad, Gareth Slade, always courting mischief, and mark my words, you'll never amount to much of a man_.

Finally Gareth had gathered his courage and entered the house, his home, only to discover his father gone, dead for more than a fortnight. His younger brother Nat was gone as well, off on some wild goose chase. Pursuing pirates, who, he was convinced, were waging a personal vendetta against Slade & Co. Gareth, however, did have to admit the decline of Slade & Co. was not imagined. Out of the two schooners and three snows it had boasted on the eve of his departure, there was nothing left. The vessels had all been captured or destroyed – if the letter Nat had left for him was to be believed – by the same group of cutthroats. 

The house and grounds, too, showed signed of neglect. The few servants who remained did so more out of loyalty than any hope of monetary gain. Of course, Mrs. Jenkins had stayed, and it was form her that Gareth had learned about his father's last days. She had also told him as best she could about Nat's departure. Whereas the details of his father's death made him sad, the thought of his brother's foolhardy leave-taking made Gareth furious – roaring furious.

"Why did he go? Didn't he think I would come?" he had demanded of no one in particular. "What in hell does he think he can do, alone, against pirates? That is, if there are any pirates," he was quick to add. Of course, his questions went unanswered. Not even the letter his brother had left for him had told him much.

Gareth pressed his palm against the crinkled parchment inside his shirt, reassuring himself of its presence. After all, that letter had sent him sailing out of Chesapeake Bay and down the coast to the warm waters of the Caribbean.

"Ya know, Cap'n, I think yer right about this rum – it could make a body drunk. I'm about ready to snooze this one off," Oliver said, emptying the last of the liquor from the jug into his cup.

Gareth kicked back his chair and stood, more than a little unsteadily. "Well, I feel more restless now than I did before. I can't stand this blasted inactivity. I'll feel like a good sleep after I find Nat."

"Ya worry too much, Cap'n. Young Nat can take care of himself."

"You don't say!" Gareth's words were beginning to slur. "You just tell me one time Nat was able to take care of himself. In all the scrapes we ever got into, who was it that got us out?" Gareth asked rhetorically, pointing his thumb toward himself.

"Mr. Benville's cow."

Gareth stopped pacing and stared blur-eyed at Oliver. "What?"

"Mr. Benville's cow," Oliver repeated. "That's a time Nat took care o' hisself. You too, as I recall."

Gareth roared with laughter, flopped onto his bunk, and stuck his head against the wall. He remembered well the time he and his brother, while playing at being Indians, had deployed their trusty bows and shot their neighbor's cow with arrows.

"Doesn't count." Gareth shook his head, his laughter subsiding. "You know damn well I meant fighting his way out of trouble. If there really are pirates, they're not going to want to listen to Nat's silver tongue."

Walking back to the desk, Gareth slumped into his chair and dropped his head into his hands. "God, I'm tired. But tomorrow morning can't come too early. The sooner we reach Jamaica, the sooner I can find that blasted brother of mine."

"Ya know what ya need?"

Gareth stared. "What?"

"A woman."

"A woman? You're crazy."

"Like a fox. Nothin' like a good roll in the hay to make me sleep like a new babe." Oliver rolled his eyes and seemed to doze off.

"Like a babe, huh?"

Oliver nodded. 

"Well, that's you. I've never been one to end a good tumble by falling asleep."

Oliver shrugged. "Worth a try."

Gareth grinned at his friend. "And where do you suggest I procure this woman who will send me speeding toward dreamland?"

"Got some women in steerage right now who'd be more than happy to oblige you, Cap'n."

"You mean those prostitutes we fished from the sea this morning? Good God, Oliver, you think I'd chance getting the pox for a night's sleep?"

"One of them ain't so bad. Matter o' fact, she's been askin' to see ya. Looks pretty clean, too."

Gareth scowled, searching his memory. "Which one is that?"

"The one ya carried up the side."

"You mean the one with the sunburned face and the God awful hair?" At Oliver's affirmative nod, Gareth burst out laughing. "She was the poorest excuse for a whore I've ever seen!"

"She looks a mite better up and about, but hey, 'twas just an idea. Ain't forcing ya." Oliver got up and headed for the door. "Beggin' your leave, Cap'n, I'm goin' to bed."

"Wait a minute." Gareth's scowl deepened as he sighed. He really did need some sleep, and it had been a long time since he had a woman. It was unlikely that one would help, but maybe . . . "Do you think she'd be willing?"

Shock registered on Oliver's bearded face. "Hell, she's a whore, ain't she? Besides, I told ya she's been askin' to see ya. Probably had in mind to thank ya for savin' her hide."

"Send her up. I guess it can't hurt."

***

The candle in the wrought-iron holder offered Avery her meager allotment of light. From the tiny bunk on which she lay she could barely make out the reclining forms of the other women, but she felt certain they all slept. If only she could . . . she had slept most of the day, barely waking in time for the evening meal of pork and pease. Avery ran her hand down the front of her torn gown and let it rest on her stomach, wondering if perhaps she wouldn't have been better off missing the repast altogether. The greasy concoction seemed to have turned to lead in her belly, and that discomfort combined with the noxious fumes of pitch and bilge water below decks left her feeling less than rescued.

Fingering combing her frizzy hair, she managed to drag it into some semblance of order and braid it around her head. As she pinned it down, she noticed with alarm that the damp canvas – she assumed it had been hung to afford herself and the other women some privacy – was being slightly pulled aside. Avery recognized the man she had talked to earlier in the day when she had first awakened and had started to wander up on deck. 

She rose shakily to her feet.

"You're awake. Good," he stated, without preamble.

Avery smiled. She wondered vaguely why it should matter to him, but repressed the desire to ask. He seemed harmless enough. She would guess his age to be at least sixty, though his movements seemed those of a younger man.

"I'm feeling better," Avery offered, the ensuing silence stretching out as the fellow peered at her through the dim light. He finally grunted and continued his perusal.

"Why are you staring at me?" she demanded, knowing her words were rude, but not nearly so rude as this sailor's behavior. She could only guess what she looked like. Her skin felt dry and tight and not altogether clean. The bucket of cold sea water she'd managed to find that evening had hardly made a dent in the layers of accumulated dirt and grime. And her gown, well, four days at sea had left it somewhat tattered. Still, her appearance was hardly her fault, and she was just about to chastise the man again when he spoke.

"Cap'n wants to see ya."

"Now?" Her voice left little doubt that she considered the timing ill-advised.

"Aye, now." He narrowed his eyes and glared at her suspiciously. "I thought ya said ya wanted to see him."

"Well, I did – I mean, I do." Avery looked frantically around the area, as if one of the women might awake and explain to this insensitive man the lateness of the hour. But the others slept peacefully, oblivious to her.

"Well, ya comin' or no?" he asked impatiently, holding back the canvas for her.

Avery sighed. "I suppose the time makes little difference. There are some concerns I have." Late or no, she wanted answers. Where was she? Were they headed for Jamaica, and if so, when would they arrive? If not . . . she tried not to think of what that would mean as she followed the man from the port side of the berth deck aft, to the captain's cabin.

She didn't hear any response to her guide's knock, but apparently he did, for without ceremony, the door opened and shut, and she found herself within the cabin, the man who had brought her without.

Before she could begin to ponder the fact that he had deserted her without having made an introduction, Avery saw a form rise from the chair behind the desk. She found her chin tilting to a decided angle as she tried to make out the features of the man she presumed to be the captain. Not that she could discern much of his countenance; the only light in the cabin was positioned behind him.

He came around the desk and slowly advanced on her. Much as his first mate had done, the captain stared at her appraisingly. But this scrutiny, unlike the previous one, did not provoke Avery. Instead, she felt an odd, warm tingling that spread like warm honey through her limbs. His gazed wandered over her, pausing now and then as though assessing each feature. Her face and hair, he passed over quickly, and Avery felt her chin rising defiantly at this apparent dismissal. How dare he treat her thus? The man hadn't even offered her a chair, and dizzy as she was, she could certainly use one. But he'd said nothing since she'd walked into the cabin. Well, she would simply have to teach this boor some manners.

Avery began to speak, then noticed where his glance had strayed. Flushing, she folded her arms across her chest. Since her ordeal with the elements, her bodice was in shreds. The area it had covered was now concealed by only the thin ruffled linen of her shift. Obviously a man of coarse breeding, the captain, instead of ignoring this unfortunate circumstance, seemed intent upon taking advantage of it. On the small boat Avery had been glad she had chosen to forgo her stays; now she longed for the camouflage they supplied. Why did she feel as though a suit of armor would be an insufficient bulwark against this man's gaze?

He lifted it now, till his amused black eyes met hers. "You do look a bit better, though you're still redder than anyone I've ever seen." His voice was mocking, even though his words were slightly slurred.

Red, was she? Well, what would he look like if he had sat unprotected in the sun for three days? Reluctantly, Avery decided he probably wouldn't appear much different, for he had the look of a man accustomed to the outdoors. Skin darkened by wind and sun stretched across his straight nose, high cheekbones, and square chin. Even expanse of chest exposed by his white shirt was darkened to a deep bronze. Suddenly conscious of where her eyes had wandered, Avery stiffened. What gentleman would entertain a lady in such a state of undress? Never mind her own appearance – _she had excuse – but he looked as disheveled as an unmade bed._

Heavens, why would she compare him to a bed, of all things!

Astonished by the meanderings of her own mind, Avery forced herself to recall his last remark. He had criticized her appearance – hers. 

Though Avery was long accustomed to being the ugly duckling, she felt a sudden, unreasonable prickle of resentment at the Fates that had not deigned to make her beautiful. The spurt of anger surprised her; she had not minded her lack of beauty since she was sixteen, and why should she care what this uncivilized, uncouth sea captain thought of her? 

Unlike Marian, who was as tall and blonde and fair as all the Garlands before her, Avery had taken after Katherine Bennett – small and dark and inclined towards plumpness, if she was not careful. In fact, she had been quite tubby until she was fifteen, when she had put away her books and started taking charge of the plantation. She found that riding all day, eating most of her meals on the go, and sleeping like a top at night did wonders for the figure.

Her features, taken separately, were good – eyes like polished amber, a small mouth, a straight nose. But when a well-meaning Elizabeth Swann Turner had introduced her to Commodore John Norrington, hoping they'd made a match, the Commodore, a well known connoisseur of beautiful women, had been only mildly interested, and Avery had found him a trifle milk-soppish. But eventually they had become fairly good friends, and when he had declared his intention to marry Marian, she had been delighted. 

Planning the wedding had been a joy. Katherine Bennett had died eighteen years before, at the birth of her younger daughter, and since that time, Avery had had the running of Hopewell. Her father had relied almost entirely on her, and since she was sixteen, when she discovered that what she lacked for in beauty was made up for in competence, it had been Avery that oversaw the planting of the sugar canes, Avery that had taken care of the accounts, Avery that had seen to the welfare of the slaves. Hopewell answered to her, from the lowliest serving boy to the overseer to her own father. Admittedly, it had made her unattractively independent, which was why she remained unwed at twenty-six – an age, her father's close friend Governor Swann had reminded her gently, that was bordering on spinsterhood.

Jerked back into the present by a sudden movement on the captain's part, she employed her haughtiest voice and said coolly, "Your opinion has absolutely no bearing here."

"Well" – he smiled, a most disarming grin, Avery had to admit – "that is a very business-like approach. I'm too much the romantic, I suppose." He shrugged, dismissing her statement.

Avery's stomach was in such turmoil she didn't consider anything amiss when he inched closer, thinking perhaps he only meant to help her to a seat. After all, this was the longest she had stood in nearly four days, and her body was rebelling. However, when two consoling arms encircled her, she was taken aback.

"Just what the hell do you think you are doing?" she demanded. Avery had quite an extensive and unladylike vocabulary, which she employed when it suited her - another trait that had frightened most of her prospective suitors away. She pushed against his chest, surprised by the warmth of his bare skin, and at the same time, noticing the rum that laced his breath.

"I was going to kiss you." At the look of shock and horror on her face, he continued merrily, "What? Am I to be allowed no amenities? Unfortunately, my appetite doesn't respond well to this all-business method. Well, perhaps sometimes it does, but" – he let his appraising gaze travel over her messily braided hair, her reddened complexion, and salt-encrusted clothing – "I'm afraid this is not one of those instances."

"You're drunk!" She shot the words at him, trying to distance herself from the sickening smell of alcohol. Avery was having an extremely difficult time understanding – even listening – to his words. Her skin felt clammy, and she could only guess how very upset this man would be if she were to be sick all over him. But he seemed blissfully unaware of her dilemma, for he threw back his head and laughed. 

"Drunk, huh? You have an impudent mouth to go with the looks." His expression sobered. "I do apologize for my inebriation; however, I would think you'd consider it an acceptable hazard."

The room, suddenly suffocatingly hot, whirled about Avery. "Please, may I lie down?"

She didn't even wait for an answer. Ignoring the confounded grin on his face as she left his arms, she collapsed onto the thin ticking of the bunk. The prone position relieved her dizziness very little, but at least her wobbly legs no longer had to support her. The room seemed to begin spinning in earnest when she closed her eyes. Determined she opened them and stared at the ceiling. Then she remembered where she was. How could she have lain down on a man's bed? Hattie – her nanny – would be horrified!

Sick she might be, but she wasn't dying, and that was the only way she'd allow herself to be in such a situation. Avery sat up quickly – too quickly. She could almost feel the blood rush from her head, leaving her weak and imagining silly things. Her conscious grasp of things was certainly slipping away. As she swooned back onto the pillow, she even thought she saw the captain removing his breeches. How silly!

Without a doubt, the strangest lightskirt he had ever around, Gareth decided as he danced about on one foot trying to divest himself of his breeches. He had been around his share, but this one really took the prize. Not that she didn't have some redeeming qualities. Maybe she was red and peeling, but that only meant her complexion was normally fair, and those freckles across her nose were really rather appealing. And he liked her quaint, lilting voice, even if the words she spoke were sharp as a lemon and twice as sour. Her hair, now that was another story – too wild, and her body was too boyish for his tastes. But hell, he was only after a quick tumble. It wasn't as if he were seeking a wife – heaven forbid! And that was a good thing, because this woman was strange! First refusing his kiss, then climbing uninvited into his bed.

He climbed in after her now. God, the softness of the bunk felt good. Gareth leaned over and kissed the girl's mouth, glad that she no longer protested. Protested, hell, she did nothing! This wasn't turning out well at all. In his present state, he would appreciate someone pleasantly responsive, even aggressive. 

"It wouldn't hurt if you kissed me back," he complained.

She ignored him. He let his head fall to the pillow for a minute, to think. It was so comfortable. His last thought before sleep overtook him was that for a common whore she was really an uncommonly cold witch.

***

Avery's eyes flew open, but saw nothing. The darkness of the room surrounded her like soft, black velvet.

Hesitantly she raised her right hand, one of the few parts of her body she was able to move freely, and tentatively touched the constricting weight that held her upper torso immobile. With a squeak of outrage, she jerked her hand back as if it had been burned. Her tiny movement seemed to cause a counter-reaction in the warm arm she had felt, for it shifted and drew her closer, and the captain's face nestled into the curve of her shoulder. 

She froze. He mumbled something indiscernible, his breath sending aflutter the tendrils of hair about her ear. She held her breath until his movements stilled and he relaxed into a deep sleep.

Avery lay in the blackness of night, willing herself not to move. When finally she knew she must start to breathe or pass out, rendering herself helpless before this monster who was her bedfellow, she took slow, deep, even breaths, matching her cadence to his, hiding even the faintest sound in the deep resonance of his soft snores. If she could match the rhythm of her heart, which vibrated like a drum, she would have.

She could only be thankful the mind sent abroad no proof of its activity, for hers raged. Indeed, she was near hysteria. This man – no, this wretched _animal_ – had used her, had forced her to commit an act she could only imagine, and had done it while she was unconscious, unable to defend herself or even try. If she had been awake, she would have kicked, screamed, bitten, scratched, and fought. He might have had her in the end, but it would not have been a pleasant experience for him, and he would not be lying peacefully beside her now; he would be nursing his wounds. But she had not been allowed even that tiny revenge for the atrocity he had committed and was quite capable of repeating. 

Her thoughts became more patterned. Planning, that was what was needed now. Somehow she had to get away from him, off this boat, and to Hopewell. Her rage kept her sane as her thoughts whirled. Papa needed her, and she had endured so much to get to him, leaving Aunt Libby's on her own, surviving the endless days on that tiny boat, and now this. 

Avery set about finding an answer to her plight. One step at a time, she told herself, trying to deal with this in the same methodical way she dealt with the planting of sugar. First, she must get away from this man, then work on steps two and three. 

But try as she might, no way to accomplish the first goal came to her, and long after she'd heard the faint bells that marked the end of midwatch, she lay awake and unmoving. Not until the first pale streaks of dawn defined the line separating sea and sky did she fall into an exhausted slumber.


	3. Chapter 3

Disclaimer: It is unnecessary to say that Pirates of the Caribbean and any characters you may recognize belong to Disney. The plot of the story is based heavily on a novel by Christine Elliott. 

Historical note: I recognized the many inaccuracies, please forgive them. They were necessary for the sake of the plotline.

Geographical note: Port Royal _is a part of Kingston. Just thought you should know._

**Chance the Winds of Fortune**

**Chapter 3**

Gareth leaned against the polished rail of the sloop, surveying his surroundings from the commanding elevation of the quarterdeck. For the moment he was pleasurably lost in observing the beauty of the area. Not Port Royal harbor, of course. Its water was clogged with vessels of every description. Not even the city itself, though it teemed with life and vitality. It was the region beyond that captured his eye. Verdant tropical forests, as yet untamed by man, rose gently to meet the majestic Blue Mountains. It was a sight that always left him in awe. When he had worked on and later captained vessels for his father, he had visited this port often.

Those had been years when he had followed the order of things according to George Slade. Gareth had started as a cabin boy and had worked his way up to ordinary seaman when he knew ever spar, every shriv through which the tackle wove, when he could climb the ratlines blindfolded, though he never would, then, and only then, had he earned a position of authority.

The first time he had sailed as an officer he'd feared that the intricacies of commanding the ship would be less of an adventure than working her, but that thought had lasted less time than it took the wind to catch a sail. He had become a sailing master, fixing his position by Hadley's quadrant if the days and nights were clear or by deduced reckoning if they were not. By the time he captained his first schooner, filled with flour ground at Jones Falls to be traded for sugar in Jamaica, he could make decisions with authority and lead men effectively and with compassion. He was everything his father could ask for in a son.

That short time of being his father's pride had lasted till he was twenty-seven. That was the year the last phase of George Slade's master plan for his son was to go into effect, the year Gareth was to give up life at sea and settle down so he might take his father's place at Slade & Co. It was then his father had to remember why he had sent the rebellious, independent boy to sea in the first place.

"You're lookin' better this mornin', Cap'n." Oliver's words interrupted Gareth's musings.

Gareth gave his first mate a wry look but said nothing.

Undaunted, Oliver continued, "Knew my plan would work."

Again, Gareth said nothing, choosing instead to look back over the water and to hope that, if he ignored him, Oliver would change the turn of his conversation. He should have known better.

"Can't say your little tumble did much for your disposition. It's about as sour as that lightskirt in your cabin."

"What do you mean?"

"I thought there was still a tongue in that mouth o' yours, though I wouldn't o' been surprised none if she'd bitten it off. I never saw no woman more full of vinegar."

"What's she upset about?" asked Gareth, puzzled.

"Damned if I know. You spent the night with 'er."

***

Avery had awakened stiff and uncomfortable and in a black mood, but it had improved at once. Almost immediately she'd realized she was alone in the cabin. The captain was gone! Step one had been accomplished with no difficulty. Then, when she arose, the lack of movement became obvious. Was it too much to hope that they were at anchor?

With all haste she darted for the door, opened it, peered out, then jumped back inside and leaned against the door as it slammed shut. She hadn't expected to see sailors in the companionway. They hadn't seemed to notice her, but heaven only knew what kind of ship she was on. She had even pondered whether it was some sort of pirate vessel; surely no honest captain would have treated her as that man had last night.

Her eyes frantically searched the room. A weapon was what she needed, but nothing caught her eye. Before she could move away from the door to begin looking for one, she heard a soft tapping sound, and then the door opened. Caught unawares, Avery could only back away from the grizzled sailor who entered. She recognized the man who had brought her to this cabin on the preceding night.

"What do you want?" She hurled the words at him, hoping to take the offensive.

His dark eyes popped open, but he gave no other sign that her manner of speech surprised him. "I brought ya some breakfast," he said, brushing aside some papers with his forearm and lowering the heavy pewter tray to the desk. 

"I don't want it!"

Again, he ignored her outburst. "Well now, the cap'n left word ya was to be served some, so I thought I'd do it, seein' ya know me and all."

Avery bristled at the mention of the hated man. "Where is he?"

"On deck, I s'pose. We came into port this mornin', so he's been pretty busy. He hardly had time to see to his own victuals, yet he thought o' yours."

"He's a saint among men," Avery snapped scathingly. "What port did we come into this morning?"

"Port Royal, o' course."

Port Royal! She could hardly contain her joy. Port Royal! She was almost home. All she had to do now was find some sort of weapon, in case she needed it, and then get off this ship. Though Marian and John were at sea, she was sure that Will and Elizabeth Turner would find a way to get her back to Hopewell.

She glanced up to see him staring at her, a strange expression in his eyes.

"Did your noble captain leave instructions for you to stand there staring at me?"

"Nay, I was just – "

"Then don't. Go away and let me" – she hesitated till her eyes landed on the bowl of mush – "eat my breakfast."

Once he was gone, she wasted no time in searching through the sea chest at the foot of the bunk. "You'd think a pirate captain would have a pistol or cutlass or something," she muttered, then started at her own words. When had she started thinking of the captain as a pirate? Avery wasn't certain, but it probably had been during her long sleepless night. No self-respecting sea captain would have abused her as this man had. He must be a pirate.

Avery renewed her search with more vigor. Yanking the contents from his sea chest, she found only clothing and books.

The small commode by the bunk caught her attention, and in it she found his ditty bag. She opened the small canvas sack and dumped the contents on the bunk. Scissors, a wooden shaving dish and brush, and assorted sewing gear spilled out, but it was the razor that Avery noticed. Opened, it appeared to provide a satisfactory knife of sorts.

Sudden footsteps in the companionway, just moments before the door opened, allowed her no time to plan the weapon's use.

"What the hell!" The mug had crashed against the wall only inches from Gareth's head, splattering hot tea over the snowy whiteness of his shirt as he'd entered his cabin.

"Don't you touch me!"

He looked in amazement from the weeping scar on the wall where the mug had hit to the woman who had thrown it. If possible, the wench he had bedded last night looked even more disreputable in the unkind light of day. Her hair was hardly more than a tangled mass of wild frizzy curls; she blew a strand of it out of her face as she glared at him. Her clothes were more wrinkled and disheveled than ever, and the dirt – my God! Didn't the woman ever bathe! Still, something about the amber eyes intrigued Gareth. Maybe it was just because they looked even more amber due to the redness of her face. Nonetheless, they might have captivated him had she not held the razor belligerently in her right hand.

He stepped forward cautiously.

"Don't touch me, or I'll use this," Avery threatened, lifting the razor.

"Listen, lady," Gareth raised his hand in what he hoped was a placating motion, "I don't know what you think you have, but last night was hardly memorable. I would not go up against that to touch you." He pointed to the razor.

Avery had lowered it slightly, but she quickly lifted it when she realized her slip in concentration. "Let me off this ship at once!" she demanded, riled by his reference to the past night.

"Sure, lady, whatever you say. But first, do you want to tell me what the problem is?"

Avery was aghast. She choked on her rage and spluttered, "You know very well what the problem is! Now get out of my way."

Gareth walked slowly in the direction she indicated. "Does this have anything to do with last night?"

She tightened her grip on the blade and said nothing. For a second he was afraid she'd throw it.

"Did I hurt you?" Concern softened his voice and shadowed the sparkle of his eyes. He had never knowingly hurt a woman, but he realized last night could have been a first because, try as he might, he could not remember what had transpired. Somewhere in the cloudy recesses of his mind was the memory of her climbing into his bed, and he after her, but what had happened between that moment and this morning, when he'd awakened draped over her, was lost. He did recall thinking her quite strange, and her behavior today certainly seemed to bear that out. However, if he had harmed her . . . Gareth wished he could remember.

Avery was startled by his tone as well as his words. She had not expected any show of concern from him, of all people, yet there was no mistaking his solicitous manner. But she wanted no sympathy, no discussion of their dreadful liaison. She didn't even want to think about what had happened. "No, you didn't hurt me," she hissed, and suddenly realized that this was true. Stiff and uncomfortable though she was, there was no physical pain to remind her of what he had done.

Relief washed over his face, to be replaced by bewilderment.

Avery ignored his question and inched toward the door. Sweat ran in rivulets down her back, and the ivory handle she grasped was slippery. She watched his every move, knowing in her heart he was not standing there so complacently because he feared a ragtag girl who barely reached his shoulder, though she brandished a makeshift knife. She saw his eyes leave hers and survey the room, to rest briefly on his ransacked belongings before returning to meet her glare, a knowing twinkle in their black depths.  

"Ah," he said, a mocking grin playing at the corners of his mouth, "you must consider me terribly dense. I would think you'd consider saving your life payment enough but . . . don't give me that bewildered look. You didn't have to go to such extreme measures, you know." He casually glanced around the room. "All you needed to do was ask. I would have been happy to pay you for last night."

Avery was surprised that she did not spontaneously combust at his words. The tiny fissure his concern had created in her armor of hatred closed up. "_Pay me_! You _insufferable bastard!" she shrieked as she launched herself at him._

Deftly sidestepping her violent but unpracticed slash with his razor, Gareth caught her flailing arms and twisted her wrists behind her back. Fury such as she had never known before flaring within her, Avery struggled desperately. She kicked and squirmed and writhed until, with an abrupt movement, he crushed her against him, one hand holding her wrists, the other looped around her waist. Her back to him, she elbowed him sharply.

"Filthy pig, whoreson, defiler of – " Before Avery could begin to hurl all the swear words in her extensive repertoire at him, his mouth descended on hers with brutal force, effectively silencing any further outburst.

He had had enough. This wretched hoyden had caused him more trouble than she would ever be worth. More trouble than he needed now. He wanted to punish her, and he knew she hated what he was doing to her. Gareth could feel it in the slight quiver of her lips beneath his, in the tension of her thin figure. 

Guilt over what he was doing overcame him. Without realizing it his kiss altered, slightly at first, then, as he allowed himself to notice the deliciousness of her body pressed against his, more radically. 

What happened, Avery did not know, but one moment his mouth had been hard and ugly and hurtful, and in the next, his lips were warm and soft. Her heartbeat raced, but her muscles relaxed and her breath caught in her throat. She pressed closer. He smelled of sea and fresh air and freedom, and she loved it. His hand left her wrists and moved up the soft curve of her arm, freeing her hands and the razor. But neither seemed to notice the clatter of ivory and steel upon the wooden planking of the deck.

Slowly, Gareth raised his head, forcing himself to stop while he could. She nestled comfortably in his arms, her eyes closed. He brushed his lips across the freckles of her nose and grinned when dark eyes slowly opened to him. "Well, aren't you full of surprises."

Surprises aren't the half of it, Avery thought, as reason started to filter through her muddled mind. Somehow, she must try to figure out what had happened, what he had done to make her react this way – to make her still reluctant to leave the shelter of his arms.

"I have to go back on deck," he told her as he gently brushed a tangled curl off her forehead, "but I'll be back." He released her, and to Avery's amazement she did not melt into a puddle at his feet.

"If you can come anywhere close to delivering what you promised in that kiss, you most certainly will not need to ask for payment."

Reality, which had receded for that brief instant, now burst forth upon her, instantly rekindling her fury. 

"Get out!" she screamed at his departing figure.

Shock turned him around to her. "If you aren't the most changeable wench I've ever seen," he muttered. Then he opened the door and stalked out, as flying cutlery hit the wall.

Avery glowered blackly as he stuck his head back through the doorway. 'I'd like this room cleaned up by the time I return and" – he grinned – "it really wouldn't hurt if you took some soap and water to yourself." She heard his laughter echo as he walked down the companionway. 

Despicable swine! The words were on the tip of her tongue, ready to be hurled at him, but Avery held them back. He was gone. There was nothing to be gained from letting her temper take control. On the contrary, if he were to return to answer her insults, there was no telling what he might do. And, she thought with self-loathing, what I might let him do. That forceful kiss had been enough! She wiped the back of her hand across her mouth, effectively erasing for the time being the memory of his lips on hers. Spotting the razor, Avery pocketed it and left the cabin without a backward glance. She made her way forward till she reached the main hatch, bypassing the aft hatch that would have brought her onto the main deck, too close to the quarterdeck. She had no desire to encounter her tormenter again. 


	4. Chapter 4

Disclaimer: It is unnecessary to say that Pirates of the Caribbean and any characters you may recognize belong to Disney. The plot of the story is based heavily on a novel by Christine Elliott. 

Historical note: I recognized the many inaccuracies, please forgive them. They were necessary for the sake of the plotline.

**Chance the Winds of Fortune**

**Chapter 4**

"Did ya find 'im?"

Gareth strode across the gently swaying deck of the _Lady of the Winds_. "Hell no, I didn't find him." He stopped and faced his first mate. The grim set of his jaw spoke more eloquently than his words.

"What did Smith say?" Oliver had followed the captain below to his cabin, damn near trotting to keep up with the younger man's long strides. He watched Gareth begin to remove his jacket.

"He hadn't seen him."

"But the letter . . ."

"Dammit, Oliver, you think I don't know what the letter says?" Gareth dropped onto the sturdy wooden chair beside his desk. "'I'll contact Henry Smith upon my arrival in Port Royal and apprise him of my plans.' Those were Nat's exact words, but he didn't do it."

Oliver rubbed his beard. "It ain't like Nathaniel not to do what he says."

The bark of laughter from Gareth was as sudden as it was mirthless. "None of this is like Nat."

Oliver sank onto the chair opposite the desk and nodded his head. "You've got the right of it there, Cap'n." An instant later he leveled his eyes at the younger man. "I guess ya considered that the _Starfish_ ain't arrived yet?"

"I can grasp at straws as well as you, old friend. After I left Henry I spent the rest of the day at the Admiralty." Gareth paused. "The Starfish arrived April 12."

Oliver sank further into his chair. "Nearly a month ago."

"Aye." 

Nearly a month. Nat had been in Port Royal, Kingston for nearly a month, and he hadn't contacted Henry Smith. Gareth thought again of his visit that morning with Slade Trading Company's solicitor. 

It hadn't taken Gareth long to realize that, though Henry knew about some of the problems Slade Trading Company was having (Nat had written asking for his assitence), he did not know about George Slade's death nor had he seen Nat.

"What ya gonna do now?" Oliver's voice brought Gareth back to the present.

Gareth answered his first mate's query with one of his own. "Do you recall the name Charles Garland?"

Oliver hesitated. "Ya took his sugar to Baltimore."

"You've a good memory, Oliver." Gareth rose and opened the sea chest at the foot of his bunk, noticing for the first time that someone had put his cabin to rights. It certainly hadn't been the one responsible for creating the havoc in the first place, for when he had returned to his cabin yesterday morning she'd been gone, but the mess had remained. Well, that was of no consequence now. 

Oliver was staring at him, no doubt wondering why he had brought up Garland. "He owns a sugar plantation on the Hope River. Henry Smith says his estate manager is selling wheat flour, and rather a lot of it, too."

"Charles Garland's manager?"

"Yes."

"But why would he be sellin' flour?" Oliver asked, rubbing his chin again.

"That's exactly what I'd like to know." Flour was one of the commodities form the colonies that the sugar planters traded for, but he could think of no logical – or legal – reason for a planter to have so much flour that he would need to sell it. Yet Henry Smith had been quite certain that was what was happening. He also had suggested that Nat might have uncovered this same information and gone to investigate it. After all, he was trying to discover who was stealing the cargo – the flour – from the Slade ships. 

"Goin' somewhere, Cap'n?" Oliver eyed the growing pile of clothes Gareth was haphazardly stacking on the bunk.

"Charles Garland was a friend of my father's. I visited his plantation years ago on one of my first voyages here, but he was in Kingsport at the time with his daughter so we've never met. I think it's about time I remedy that situation."

"Ya think he might have somethin' to do with that lost cargo?"

"I don't know, but I intend to find out and I hope to find that brother of mine in the process." Satisfied his packing of the small traveling chest, Gareth returned with his eyes and studies his first mate. "You could help me if you would."

"Anythin' Cap'n. Ya know that."

Gareth smiled at seeing the earnest expression on the weather ravaged face of his first mate. He felt some of his anger fade away. There were some things in this world you could count on, and Oliver's friendship and help were among them. "What I ask shouldn't be too hard."

"Ya want me to come with ya?"

"No. I should be able to handle this little visit by myself. All I ask is that you keep a sharp eye out when you visit the local bawdy houses and grog shops. A sharp year, too. Think you can do that?"

Oliver leaned forward, his eyes bright with amusement. "Well now, Cap'n. I always tries to keep me wits about me. What exactly am I supposed ta be watchin' for? Ya think young Nat is drinkin' and whorin' around?"

"Good Lord, no!" Gareth laughed aloud as he tried to imagine his staid younger brother with a tankard of rum in one hand and a buxom partially clad woman in the other. "But you might run into someone who saw him. Maybe a crew member of the Star fish who decided to stay on for awhile after the brig sailed back to Maryland – anything."

"Ya can count on me, Cap'n."

Rising and circling the desk, Gareth laid his hand on his first mate's shoulder. "I know I can, Oliver. There is one last thing I would ask of you. I'd do it myself, of course, but I won't be here." Gareth fished a few gold coins from his pocket. "If you should happen to run into the young lady that was here the other night . . ."

"Ya mean the whore?" Oliver asked with obvious enjoyment.

"Yes. Would you please give her these coins?" He tossed them onto the desk.

Oliver picked up the money and shook his head. "Mighty high-priced little piece, if ya ask me. I heard ya askin' them others 'bout her this mornin'." He shook his head. "She musta' had mosta' her charms hidden, so to speak."

Hidden? Buried, most like it, Gareth thought. Then he remembered the kiss, and just, for an instant, the eyes. "Hell, just give her the money if you see her. And don't make her work for it." He turned away and tried to change the subject. "I'll only be gone a couple days, a sennight at most."

Oliver was not to be diverted. "I'd think she'd be owing the money, the way she wrecked your cabin."

"Perhaps she had reason." Gareth smiled at the shocked expression on Oliver's face, then wished he could remember if she had. More quietly, he continued, "Just give her the money, please. She seemed somewhat" – he searched for a word – "desperate."

***

Desperate was exactly how Avery felt as she slid lower into the brass tub, letting the warm water soak away some of her aches. At Hopewell less than twenty-four hours, she was beginning to realize that, difficult as her journey had been, her homecoming was not going to be as placid as she had hoped. She already foresaw problems.

It had been easy to slip off the ship and find her way through the docks toward the Governor's mansion. Governor Swann had been both shocked and pleased to see her, and after she had explained how she had come to be wandering around Kingsport in rags, he had hastened to have the slaves draw a bath for her. An old gown of Elizabeth's had been found, though it was a trifle to long, and after dropping by for a quick visit at the Turners, she had been sent back to Hopewell in a carriage. 

But the fields she'd passed on her way to the great house had been weed-clogged, and even the stately white manse with his abundance of sparkling windows and its wraparound veranda had shown signs of neglect.

"Oh Hattie, I don't ever want to leave this tub," Avery groaned. Then she smiled up at the black woman who had taken care of her for all of her twenty-six years. Hattie's dark face was comforting. 

"I take it ya didn't enjoy da ride."

Avery rose slowly, conscious of the muscles in her legs as they rebelled against her abuse of them that afternoon. She had ridden for hours, not the least bit concerned that it was the first time in months she had sat a horse. Avery stepped gingerly from the tub into the towel Hattie held for her. "Of course I didn't enjoy my ride. You know very well I went with Eli Creely." Avery paused a moment, trying to fight down the anger that swept over her whenever she thought of the overseer. "I made him show me everything. Oh, he was madder than a hornet, though he tried not to let me see." Finished drying herself, Avery held up her arms and let the soft linen shift slide down her body. "He had an excuse for everything, of course. Too much rain, slaves running away."

Hattie grunted as she pulled the cords through the eyelets of Avery's stays. "I ain't surprised he has his excuses."

"Have there been problems with the slaves?"

"Some," said Hattie laconically.

"I don't want any hoops," Avery said as Hattie lifted the whalebone and linen garment from the bed. "All I'm going to do this evening is sit with Papa. Has he wakened from his nap yet?"

"Yes'm. Your pa, he's downstairs in da library."

"Downstairs!" Avery swung around, sending her under petticoats swaying around her ankles. "What is he doing downstairs? He promised me he'd stay abed today."

"He has a visitor."

"Well, he's much too weak to be receiving visitors." Avery sat in front of her vanity and let Hattie brush the tangles from her dark hair. She had had it cut nearly to her shoulders upon her return to Hopewell in an effort to rid herself of the split ends she had acquired during her misadventure at sea.

Her father's appearance had been a most unpleasant surprise, though maybe not a complete shock. Wasn't that why she had left Williamsburg in such haste? Hadn't she suspected he might be ill? But she had hardly thought to see her father shrunk to a mere shadow of his former self. Why wasn't he eating? He had always had a healthy appetite, but last evening when she had insisted on bringing a tray to his room he had hardly eaten a thing.

"You're sure a doctor has seen to him?" She turned to face Hattie.

"If ya don't keep your head still I ain't gonna be able to fix your hair," Hattie grumbled as she pulled the brush through the tangled mess.

"Hattie."

"I told ya yesterday, same as I'll tell ya today. Dr. Holt from Kingstone done come up here and looked at da massa. But maybe no your home, Miz Avery, he'll feel more like hisself."

Avery winced, startled that her mammy's words so closely paralleled her own thought. She shouldn't have gone to visit her aunt in Virginia. She had known at the time that her father hadn't been interested in running the sugar plantation on his own, let alone in supervising things at the mill. She had known that since she'd been old enough to ride by herself. At first she had just offered suggestions to her father now and again, whenever she'd noticed things were running less than smoothly. Gradually, however, she had taken over most of the decisions. Zeb Brown was an efficient manager, and despite an initial reluctance on his part, she and that crusty old gentleman had developed quite a good working relationship. She had even thought he'd liked and admired her, grudgingly, of course. But that was before he'd left – just disappeared one day over a year past. Papa had said the wanderlust must have gotten into him, but Avery had never really believed that.

Eli Creely had shown up as if by Providence, not long after that, and he'd seemed to have real flair for managing Hopewell. If he hadn't, of course, Avery would have put her foot down and refused to go to Williamsburg. Which is exactly what she should have done, since it was obvious her father's worrying and fretting over the running of the sugar plantation had affected his health.

She sighed and nodded absently as Hattie picked a length of scarlet ribbon from her dresser to match her gown. "I never should have left."

"Da massa, he wanted you to have a good time, maybe find a husband," she admonished, as if Avery was highly ungrateful.

Avery laughed in spite of herself. "I know exactly what Papa had in mind for my little visit, but you see it didn't work."

"Well now, Miz Avery, and whose fault does ya think that is?"

"Why, Hattie," Avery asked, her eyes bright with amusement, "are you implying it is my fault I did not find a husband?"

"Humph."

"I did have someone propose marriage, you know." Avery bit her tongue because she hadn't meant to tell anyone, but it was too late.

Hattie gaped. "Then why didn't you bring a strong husband back here?"

That was a good question, one she hadn't seriously considered before. She had liked Philip Norrington, John's older brother, well enough. He was handsome, charming, and enthralled with her, which was pleasant for a change, but then she had gotten her father's last post and had left. She hadn't departed without a word, of course. She had sent a note for him, explaining her sudden departure.

"I left," said Avery.

"Ya left a man who wanted to marry ya?"

Avery stood up, trying not to feel offended by Hattie's apparent belief that she had left the only man in the world who would ever want to marry her.

"Yes, I left," she said. "I received Papa's letter, and left. And I'm glad I did. I didn't really want to marry him, anyway. It was the Commodore's older brother, and he's just as priggish as John. Hand me my dress. I'm going downstairs to get rid of that visitor. Who is he, anyway?"

Hattie helped Avery smooth overskirt of her scarlet silk gown. "He's a friend of da massa and" – Hattie rolled her eyes – "one beautiful man."

"Beautiful?" Avery laughed. "A friend of my father's?" She could think of several acquaintances who might have called but not one who could be described as beautiful. As a matter of fact, she decided she had never seen a man she would call beautiful, except maybe . . . .

Firmly, she squelched that thought.

"Men aren't beautiful, Hattie."

"Yes'm, Miz Avery," Hattie agreed, but she grinned lasciviously.

Silly old woman, Avery thought crossly as the heelds of her brocaded silk slippers drummed determinedly against the steps. I care not if he is handsome or beautiful or ugly as sin; he shall find his visit cut as short as courtesy allows.

Avery swept through the wide central hallway. The dark mahogany door of the library was closed, but when she rapped her father bid her enter. His voice, if nothing else, remained staunch and firm.

The interior of the room was dim. Her eyes searched for her father and found him sitting, in the depths of his favorite chair. Avery thought at first Hattie had been mistaken, had imagined this veritable god of a visitor. Except for Papa and herself, the room seemed quite empty. Then she a slight movement behind her drew her attention to the rows of leather-bound volumes she and her father often read and discussed. Charles Garland's visitor must enjoy literature, she thought idly, as she turned, a smile of welcome beginning to curve her lips. But then she froze.

"_You_," she breathed, and sank into a chair.


End file.
